Blood and Burden

The manor's office was a study in contrasts—opulent yet austere, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound tomes and its floor covered in a plush carpet that muffled the sound of footsteps. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and the faint, lingering aroma of tea, a reminder of the rituals of power that had long been practiced within these walls. Nathanael sat on a velvet-upholstered couch, his posture rigid, his storm-gray eyes fixed on the man across from him. Augé, his uncle, reclined with an air of casual authority, a porcelain teacup cradled in his large, scarred hands. He sipped the tea slowly, his gaze distant, as if lost in thought.

The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken questions and the weight of shared history. It was Augé who broke it, his voice low and measured, like the tolling of a distant bell. "What are you doing here, Nathanael? The central regions are far from your estate. Far from the safety of the north."

Nathanael's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists before he forced them to relax. "I was sent on a 'noble mission,'" he said, his tone laced with bitterness. "A farce, really. Something to keep me busy, to make me feel like I had a purpose. But what's the point? Even if I succeed, what then? I'm already marked as a spare, a tool to be used when it suits them. My mother's death sealed that fate."

Augé's eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening as he set the teacup down on the table between them. "And the mark?" he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Do they know about it?"

Nathanael hesitated, then nodded. "They know I'm marked. But they don't know its origin. I don't even know how to control it. It's… unpredictable."

Augé leaned back, his expression unreadable, though his eyes bore into Nathanael with an intensity that made the younger man shift uncomfortably. For a long moment, the room was silent save for the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Then, Nathanael spoke again, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "How do you even know about me? My mother… she died when I was just a baby. I barely remember her face."

Augé's expression softened, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or sorrow—crossing his features. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded letter, its edges frayed and yellowed with age. He handed it to Nathanael without a word.

Nathanael unfolded the letter carefully, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting—elegant yet hurried, as if the writer had been in a rush to capture her thoughts before they slipped away. It was his mother's handwriting. His breath caught in his throat as he read.

"My dearest brother,

I write to you with news that fills my heart with both joy and trepidation. I have given birth to a son, Nathanael. He is healthy and strong, with eyes that remind me of our father's. But I fear for him, Augé. The Duke's first wife watches us like a hawk, her jealousy a poison that threatens to consume us all. We have been sent to the second mansion, far from the main estate, under the guise of 'safety.' But I know the truth. She seeks to isolate us, to erase us from the succession. I will protect him with my life, but I cannot do this alone. Please, brother, if anything should happen to me, promise me you will look after him. He is all I have."

Nathanael's hands trembled as he lowered the letter, his vision blurring with unshed tears. He looked up at Augé, his voice barely a whisper. "She… she knew. She knew they would come for her."

Augé nodded, his expression grim. "She did. And she was right. After you were born, her letters stopped coming. We tried to reach out, to send word, but we were met with silence. Then the news came—her death, and the Duke's decision to close the investigation. They called it an accident, but we knew better. The Mignard family was furious. We marched to the dukedom, demanding answers, but the Duke had already retreated into seclusion. His mansion was closed to us, and his retainers turned us away at the gates."

Nathanael's chest tightened, a mixture of grief and rage swirling within him. "And you just… let it go?"

Augé's eyes flashed, but his voice remained calm. "We didn't let it go. We bided our time. The Mignard family is not one to forget, nor to forgive. But we are also not fools. Charging headlong into the dukedom would have been suicide. We waited, we watched, and we planned. And now…" He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Now you're here."

Before their conversation could delve deeper into the shadows of the past and the plans for the future, a sharp knock at the door interrupted the heavy silence. A servant entered, bowing low before announcing, "My lord, a messenger from the court awaits outside. He bears a direct order from the noble assembly."

Augé's brow arched, his expression a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation. He exchanged a glance with Nathanael, who sat stiffly on the couch, his storm-gray eyes narrowing at the mention of the court. Without a word, Augé rose from his seat, his movements deliberate, and gestured for the servant to lead the way. Nathanael followed, his mind already racing with possibilities.

The messenger stood at the foot of the manor's grand staircase, his posture rigid and his face a mask of professional neutrality. In his hands, he held a sealed letter, the wax emblem of the noble court glinting in the dim light. He bowed as Augé approached, his voice crisp and formal. "My lord, I bring a direct order from the noble court. It is addressed to the lord of this town."

Augé's lips twitched, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The lord of this town," he repeated, his tone dry. "I see. Well, as the acting authority here, I will accept it on his behalf."

The messenger hesitated, his eyes flicking to Nathanael, who stood a few paces behind Augé. For a moment, it seemed he might question the arrangement, but he thought better of it and handed the letter over with a nod. "As you wish, my lord."

Augé broke the seal with a flick of his thumb and unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the contents with a speed that belied the gravity of the message. His expression remained neutral, but Nathanael noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the faintest hint of tension in his shoulders. After a moment, Augé let out a low chuckle, the sound more amused than mirthful.

"It seems," he said, folding the letter and tucking it into his coat, "that the court has taken an interest in your… predicament, Nathanael. They demand your immediate release, citing your unlawful captivity. They even threaten to send the Duke himself to retrieve you if their orders are not obeyed."

Nathanael's eyes widened, a flicker of panic crossing his features before he schooled them into neutrality. The thought of the Duke coming here, of being dragged back into the suffocating embrace of the dukedom, was enough to make his stomach churn. He had no desire to return to that gilded cage, not now, not ever.

Augé turned to the messenger, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of authority. "You may inform the court that the young man in question has already been released from captivity. In fact, he stands before you now, free and unharmed."

The messenger's eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting to Nathanael with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice cautious. "And may I ask, how am I to verify his identity? Does he bear the badge or emblem of the Greinthsion family?"

Nathanael's heart sank. He had no such token, no physical proof of his lineage. The badge, a small but significant symbol of his place within the Greinthsion family, had been lost during his travels—a fact that now threatened to unravel the fragile thread of his freedom. He opened his mouth to respond, but Augé beat him to it.

"He does not," Augé said smoothly, his tone unbothered. "But surely you can see the resemblance? The eyes, the bearing—it's unmistakable."

The messenger frowned, clearly unconvinced. "With all due respect, my lord, resemblance is not proof. If he cannot provide evidence of his identity, I have no choice but to report this discrepancy to the court."

Nathanael's mind raced, his thoughts a whirlwind of desperation and calculation. He couldn't let this messenger leave with doubts. If the court decided to investigate further, it would only be a matter of time before the Duke's men arrived, and with them, the end of any hope of escape. Then, an idea struck him—a risky one, but perhaps his only option.

"Wait," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. He reached for the sword at his side, the weapon a constant companion since the day he had left the dukedom. With a fluid motion, he drew it from its scabbard and held it out for the messenger to see. The blade gleamed in the light, its craftsmanship exquisite, but it was the hilt that caught the messenger's attention. There, etched into the metal, was the unmistakable emblem of the Greinthsion family—a phoenix rising from flames, its wings outstretched in defiance.

"This sword," Nathanael said, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart, "was a gift from the Duke himself. It bears the emblem of my house. Will this suffice as proof?"

The messenger's eyes widened as he studied the hilt, his skepticism giving way to reluctant acceptance. He glanced at Augé, then back at Nathanael, before nodding slowly. "It will," he said, though his tone suggested he still harbored doubts. "I will inform the court of your release and your… proof of identity."

With that, the messenger turned on his heel and strode out of the manor, his footsteps echoing in the grand hall. Nathanael watched him go, his grip on the sword tightening as he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

Augé clapped a hand on his shoulder, the gesture both reassuring and grounding. "Clever," he said, his voice tinged with approval. "But risky. If that messenger decides to dig deeper, this could still come back to haunt us."

Nathanael sheathed the sword, his expression grim. "I know. But it was the only card I had to play."

Augé studied him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "You're more like your mother than you realize," he said at last. "She was always good at thinking on her feet."

The words hung in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the woman who had shaped them both, even in her absence.